


Staring into the Abyss

by polche



Category: Neon Genesis Evangelion, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polche/pseuds/polche
Summary: The site seems like a pretty standard military base, concrete and brick and barbed wire. There are some airstrips in the vicinity, too, outside the chain link fences. Cheung probably works here, since he’s supposed to be a military captain or something. I have no idea why he signed up for it, I’m already depressed just thinking about having to come to a place as dreary and hostile as this all the time.I can see why my mother set up here, it matches her perfectly.Cheung silently leads me through the compound, to a red door made of thick metal where he swipes a keycard and punches in a code. I can’t stop myself from running my fingers along the sharp plastic edges of my visitor lanyard - if whatever is behind here is important enough to require this much security, why would my mother want me to have any part in it?A slightly-to-the-left interpretation of Neon Genesis Evangelion (TV) with my own original characters.Stel Douglas, a completely normal teenager, is summoned Corsham, Wiltshire, to be part of an exclusive team of giant robot pilots in the fight against an alien threat, under orders of Ezra Douglas, Stel's own mother.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Staring into the Abyss

A liminal space is a place between places. Petrol stations along the motorway; the hallways and lift in an apartment building; the waiting room at the GP. Somewhere temporary. What does it say about me that I feel more at home in these liminal spaces than in any supposedly permanent location? It figures, honestly, that opening the door to the apartment building of whatever distant relative I’ve been shipped off to live with now feels more alien and less solid than watching the scenery fly by in the car on the way.

Or train, in this case. I managed to convince my current - previous? - guardians that I’ve done this song and dance often enough that I can manage it on my own now. It saves me the awkward, stilted conversation they inevitably try to start.

“It makes sense,” they discuss among themselves, performatively concerned, like they actually care, “being moved around like that can’t make it easy to form connections.” Or they say “so independent!” like they’re proud, when really they’re just relieved they don’t have to put more effort into taking care of a burden like me.

I’m pretty sure I know what’s really going on though. All it is, is that I’m my mother’s child. She’s as antisocial as they come, without even the space in her heart to look at her own flesh and blood, never mind take care of it. She must be genetically incapable of liking anyone, or being liked, beyond whatever superficial affair somehow resulted in me, and I’ve inherited that. It’s fine, I don’t mind. I just wish people didn’t pretend it matters to them. I just want to be left alone.

The speaker system chimes dully through my earphones and the blurs on the other side of the window crystallise into the station I’m supposed to stop at. With a heavy sigh, I wheel my suitcase out from between my legs and step back out into the familiar unknown.

The breeze is cold on my legs, still used to the train’s heating. I wish I’d worn leggings as well, not just this hoodie for warmth. Knowing I won’t know who’s waiting for me, I lower the volume on my music player, though I resent every press of the button.

“Stella Douglas?”

“Stel,” I snap back. Maybe it’s irrational, but I don’t want to be saddled with the name  _ she _ gave me. I’m not  _ any _ kind of “Stella”. I immediately realize I’ve once again made a terrible first impression, but that’s par for the course at this point.

The guy who’s here to pick me up looks at me with the kind of perfectly bland expression that implies he couldn’t be less thrilled to be here. He seems young, probably in his twenties, pretty and bland in a way that contrasts with his tryhard leather jacket and the dog tags around his neck. If I had to guess, he’s probably an intern or PA sent to pick me up because whoever’s going to be taking me in was too important or whatever.

“Douno Cheung,” he says. He gives the briefest nod and I guess he feels like he’s said all he needed to because he immediately turns to leave the station.

Maybe it was, because I do vaguely remember being told I’d be living with a Captain Cheung in my mother’s letter. I don’t know anything about the army, but this guy looks like he’d be more at home in a music video than a battlefield. Maybe it’s one of his parents.

Either way, I rush to catch up with Cheung. He walks unhurried (even though he’s so stiff it looks like he’s got something lodged way up his ass) but his stupid long legs mean I have to actually put some effort in.

\---

The car we step into looks like it was bought off a loving granny when her eyes got too old to see the road well enough anymore, an older, almost brick-shaped model with a faded blue paint job. Clearly, that’s not how mister Cheung sees it, because he takes off like it’s Nascar and probably only doesn’t ram people off the road because it’s bloody Wiltshire and nobody actually lives here.

I’ve never felt closer to God than in the twenty minute drive to our destination, because I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to take us at least half an hour or more.

After failing miserably to unclasp my seat belt due to shaking hands several times and finally peeling myself from where my fear sweat glued me to the car seat, I only barely manage to resist falling prostrate and kissing the steady ground for its safety.

Cheung doesn’t look remotely ruffled, just bored, and I can’t help but wonder if he actually just tried to kill me.

I still follow him into the maisonette because at this point, what have I got to lose? Especially since I’m supposed to be meeting with my mother tomorrow. He points out various rooms with one-word descriptions - “kitchen”, “bathroom”, “bedroom” - and leaves me to unpack my things, unfortunately without stabbing me in the throat.

The room he calls my bedroom is clearly a guest room, and one that hasn’t been used much at that. It’s practically empty, save for a bed and a wardrobe that’s seen better days, and a flatpack desk that’s been constructed so recently, the instructions are still laying on top of it, along with an errant screw. At least the sheets are fresh. I just dump my suitcase in a corner because I can’t be bothered to sort it out right now. I can always grab some pj’s from it when I go to bed - I put them on top for that very reason.

Looking around the rest of the house, it becomes increasingly unlikely the guy’s parents live here. There’s only one other bedroom, and it doesn’t look like it belongs to anyone old. The whole place doesn’t exactly scream bachelor pad, but it does whisper it. There’s no huge mess or anything - in fact it’s almost scarily neat - but everything is clearly meant for one person. There’s just a sofa, no chairs; a coffee table with one coaster; one toothbrush. Definitely not the usual kind of place I'm dropped in.

The only place I don't immediately check out is the kitchen, because  _ he's _ in there. Cooking, judging by the smell. Whatever it is, he's still going by the time I finish, so I sit down on the sofa and twiddle my thumbs until he's done.

In the half hour I've known him, Cheung has never failed to surprise me, and dinner also doesn't disappoint. He comes in with exactly one plate of meticulously sectioned off meat, veg and potatoes, puts it and some cutlery down in front of where I'm sitting, tells me to “Eat,” and immediately walks back into the kitchen.

That has to mean he hates me. It has to. When it comes to what I'm used to, either they tried to involve me in their family mealtime with the implication I was to play along or move along, or they just didn't care at all. Never have I had a guardian make single servings of a meal just to avoid having to eat with me.

It feels weird to do, but I do as he said and eat. The chicken is dry and overcooked, but it tastes fine. I’ve definitely had worse.

I’m just about finishing up my meal when he returns with his own - exactly the same as what he made me, down to the presentation. I seriously don’t see any reason other than that he hates me as for why he didn’t just make it all at once. It’s so much more work.

He has his utensils poised over his food, but he’s not using them just yet. There’s a focused expression on his face, and he takes in a breath like he’s about to say something. Could he be about to say that he’s going to ask my mother to find me someone else to live with? I’m already bracing myself.

“I’m,” he finally begins to say, “bad at conversation.”

I expect him to say more. There’s still unresolved tension in his shoulders. But he starts eating, and I guess that’s the end of it.

I don’t know what to say. It feels like I should say something.

“Me too,” I eventually decide with a half-hearted shrug.

He nods, and that’s the end of the miserable excuse for a conversation that we apparently just had. It feels ridiculous and I’ve never been happier to be done eating so I can take my plate to the kitchen and wash it, if only to avoid any further attempts.

I finish in record time and head for what I guess I’ll have to get used to calling my bedroom, at least for now, though I pause just as I exit the living room when I remember that being polite exists.

“Thanks,” I mumble, “for cooking.” As bizarre as it was. “I’m gonna go sort out my stuff now.”

I don’t stick around long enough to hear his response.


End file.
